


hold me down (i've got my eyes on the prize now)

by talionprinciple (Triskai)



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls II
Genre: D/s elements, M/M, Pre-Canon, and other smash hits, erotic asphyxiation, im giving you a handjob but not because i care about you or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 01:45:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14706773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triskai/pseuds/talionprinciple
Summary: Pate’s on the precipice of realizing something he won’t like, so he resolves not to think about it.It doesn't really work.





	hold me down (i've got my eyes on the prize now)

They’ve been working together for a bit over a month when something changes. Pate can’t quite place it at first. His instinct is suspicion, so he takes his spear and paces the perimeter of the camp they’ve made around a bonfire, not sure which way he should be looking – out into the darkness, or back towards the fire where a certain deserter from Mirrah has wrapped himself up in his cape and is sound asleep.

Sound asleep?

Pate pauses, turns. Steps quietly towards Creighton – not too close, but enough to get a good look at him. He’s still in full armor as usual, but his chest is rising and falling in a slow steady rhythm, too convincing to be his usual feigned slumber. (Oh, Pate hasn’t let on, but he knows. Creighton only pretends to sleep, at least until he thinks Pate is asleep. But Pate pretends to sleep as well. It’s a neat little dance.) Even more unusual: his axe is on the other side of the fire, out of arm’s reach.

It has to be a ruse. Creighton’s waiting for Pate to try to off him in his sleep, and when he does, he’ll pull out another axe from somewhere in that chainmail monstrosity that he calls clothing. No, no, that’s ridiculous. Creighton hasn’t got a subtle bone in his body. He’s made a mistake, then. Addled with exhaustion, he’d left his axe on the other side of the fire and fallen asleep on accident. This seems far more probable.

The thing is, Pate doesn’t _want_ to kill Creighton. Not for his souls, nor for his share of the treasure. Their partnership, if he can call it that, has proved quite fruitful so far. Creighton is surprisingly skilled in battle and follows directions with the discipline of a well-trained warhound. A weapon like that can’t be bought or bartered for.

Pate’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice Creighton crack an eye open.

“Oi, what’re you doing standing there like that?”

Pate startles like a guilty child before remembering himself. He relaxes his grip on his spear, trying to think of an excuse for – what had he been doing? Staring? Staring. At Creighton. On second thought, better not to bring attention to it.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to wake you,” Pate murmurs. He’s watching Creighton for signs of aggression like you would a stray dog, but Creighton only huffs and turns over, wrapping his cape tighter around his shoulders and curling towards the fire.

“Creepy bastard,” Creighton growls, but there’s no real venom behind it. “Go to sleep, will you?”

Pate’s barely able to conceal his surprise. “In a moment.”

He stands there for another minute, waiting for Creighton to reach over and hug his axe to his chest like usual, or to turn back over and spit a string of insults at him, but all the man does is lie there looking for all intents and purposes like he’s trying to fall back asleep. That niggling feeling of suspicion comes back in force.

He settles down a safe distance from Creighton and lies down himself, but his mind is turning and turning. Creighton is a simple man. There has to be a simple explanation.

It comes to him just as he’s slipping into sleep. The realization happens suddenly, like a knife between his ribs: Creighton trusts him.

* * *

Their newest mark is a knight-looking fellow with a jewel-encrusted breastplate that, Pate assures Creighton, is sure to sell for a good amount of souls. (Creighton, for his part, is willing to kill just about anybody for any reason if Pate points him their way, so he isn’t terribly concerned.) It takes them the better part of a night to set up a trap for this one, but it pays off – the poor fool steps on a pressure plate and gets shot so full of arrows he resembles a pincushion more than a person.

This ruins the breastplate a little, but some things can’t be helped.

They split the spoils and souls as usual, but Pate can’t resist prodding at Creighton to see how far this new trust goes. Like probing a loose tooth.

“You know,” he says off-handedly, “I can tell you’re itching for a fight. I’ve heard rumors that there’s an enchanted ring deep within these caves. It’s said to be guarded by a rather fearsome monster… but surely you are more than a match for it.”

Creighton snorts. “You mean you want it but you’re too afraid to do it yourself.”

“I’m doing you a favor,” Pate corrects him.

Creighton tests the edge of his axe, giving him an odd look. Then, with surprisingly little fuss: “Fine.”

 

He presses the ring into Pate’s hand a half hour later, breathing hard. It’s covered in thorny spikes, and pricks Pate’s palm even through his gloves. Creighton leans in, voice low. “You owe me.”

Pate closes his fingers around the ring, strangely light-headed. Creighton’s close enough to smell: all metal and blood and sweat.

* * *

They’ve been camping in Brightstone Cove for a few days before Creighton suggests it.

“A permanent base?” Pate raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re sick of traveling.”

“I don’t mean we’d be here all the time, just…” The mask hides most of Creighton’s face, but Pate is familiar enough with his expressions by now to know he’s scrunching up his nose in that way he does when he _thinks._ Adorable, really. “It’d be nice to have someplace to stash our stuff. Or lie low for a while, if we need to.”

“I never pegged you for the type to put down roots.” Pate’s teasing and he’s not. He watches Creighton from the corner of his eye, sees how he goes defensive in an instant.

“That’s not it,” Creighton mutters. “As if I’d ever want to settle down with _you._ ”

* * *

No matter how long you’ve been undead, Pate discovers, there’s still some part of you that claws and thrashes and screams when it sees a sword swinging for your neck.

Only he doesn’t die. It’s Creighton who catches the blade across his chest, and although he manages to bury his axe in their assailant’s shoulder he receives a dagger in the gut in exchange, and slumps over.

Pate finishes them off, but by then Creighton’s body has already vanished.

 

Pate finds Creighton at their camp in Brightstone Cove, slumped against the wall. It’s obvious in the way the chainmail droops around too-thin limbs that he’s hollowing out, and something cold and heavy settles in Pate’s stomach.

“Creighton.”

Creighton’s head snaps up and Pate grips his spear tighter, but to his relief there’s recognition in those blue eyes.

“Pate. Took your damn time.”

“I was finishing off the stragglers,” he says, approaching. He has a few human effigies in his bag. He’s been saving them for an emergency, on the off chance he himself starts to hollow, but Creighton in this state looks so – pathetic – he can’t stand it. Pate kneels at Creighton’s side, fishing one out.

Creighton eyes him with suspicion. “What’re you doing?”

“You’re hollowing.” Pate’s starting to have doubts. Sharing loot is all good and well, but human effigies are precious, a thing to be guarded jealously. Offering them up like this is bordering on generosity. Surely Creighton has a few of his own, or can go out and scrounge one up. And yet… something about the situation pleases Pate. Before he can think too hard about it he presses the effigy into Creighton’s chest, feeling it split and burst beneath his palm.

He’s touching Creighton, so he can _feel_ the man’s hollowing reverse itself, his chest and arms and legs filling out with muscle. It’s uncomfortably intimate. Pate’s on the precipice of realizing something he won’t like, so he resolves not to think about it.

(Why isn’t Creighton saying anything?)

“There,” Pate says, if only to fill the silence. He should move away now but he doesn’t want to. Creighton is reassuringly solid against his hand. He can feel the slow rise and fall of Creighton’s chest as he breathes.

“Pate,” says Creighton slowly. There’s something indecipherable in his eyes.

Every one of Pate’s instincts screams _danger_ but there’s something stronger pulling him forward and he lets the feeling lead him, reaching up to unclasp Creighton’s steel mask and pull it off. The skin beneath is smooth and pale. It’s not the first time Pate’s seen Creighton’s face, but it is the first time he’s seen it up close. One of Creighton’s hands comes up in a half-hearted attempt to push Pate away but just ends up resting on Pate’s wrist lightly. Creighton’s breathing faster, lips slightly parted. Pate’s noticing little details he’s never paid attention to before; a scar across Creighton’s left cheekbone, the barest hints of freckles across his nose, the inviting hollow of his throat. Pate pushes him back against the wall, pins him there with a forearm across his collarbones, and Creighton lets him.

Pate thinks: What am I doing?

Pate’s never thought of Creighton as a handsome man but right now with his back against the wall, cheeks slightly flushed, and eyes fixed on Pate’s, he looks absolutely devastating. Gripped by a sudden implse, Pate shifts his arm off Creighton’s chest so he can rest a gloved hand on the man’s throat. The soft noise Creighton makes is what tips Pate over the edge. He leans in.

The kiss starts off slow and exploratory. Pate runs his tongue over Creighton’s lips and then dips into his mouth, languidly, but Creighton makes a frustrated sound and leans forward into Pate’s restraining grip, so he gives him what he wants and presses Creighton into the wall. Creighton groans into Pate’s mouth when he squeezes on his neck, and retaliates with a bite. The sharp sting of pain brings the world into focus. This is real, this is happening. He breaks the kiss to mouth along Creighton’s jaw, shuffling forward on his knees to get a thigh between Creighton’s legs. Creighton is panting; shallow, strained breaths that barely get past the pressure on his throat.

“I always wondered why you joined up with me,” Pate murmurs, directly into Creighton’s ear. He’s hardly paying attention to what he says, instead focusing on the way Creighton shudders against him as he speaks. So wonderfully responsive. “You don’t care about treasure. Maybe what you wanted was _this_.”

“Shut up,” Creighton growls, and the act of speaking makes his stubble scrape against Pate’s cheek pleasantly.

Pate laughs, sliding a hand down Creighton’s front. He’s wearing far too many clothes. Well, Pate can fix that. He undoes Creighton’s belt one-handed with a few deft motions and shoves his tabard to the side. There’s a chainmail skirt underneath, but that’s easy enough to push up out of the way. To Pate’s delight, Creighton’s chausses end at the knee and all that covers his crotch and thighs is a pair of thin cotton pants. Pate pushes his free hand up Creighton’s thigh, feeling the thick muscle there jump as Creighton tenses under his touch.

“Not having second thoughts, are you?” Pate inches his hand up further, tracing the seam of Creighton’s inner thigh with his thumb.

“Get on with it already, you fucking— _shit_ ,” Creighton hisses. Pate’s palming him through his pants before he even finishes his sentence.

Creighton’s already mostly hard, Pate notices smugly. The thin pants don’t leave much up to imagination; Pate can see the damp tip of the other man’s cock through the white fabric, and he skims his palm across it just to watch Creighton throw his head back and breathe hard. Pate moves his hand down to cup Creighton’s balls and then drags his fingers up along his length, watching Creighton’s face. Creighton’s making desperate little noises low in his throat and Pate is burning to hear more. He wants to tease Creighton for longer, see if he can get the man to beg, but he just can’t help himself. Pate yanks Creighton’s pants down and wraps his gloved fingers around his length, relishing in the way Creighton moans at the contact.

Pate starts off slow, trying to see what gets the most reaction out of Creighton, but he speeds up quickly. Creighton is writhing beneath him, thrusting up into Pate’s hand in an erratic rhythm, letting out desperate whines. Pate’s sweating. An urge rises up in him – Pate tightens his grip on Creighton’s neck, cutting off the noises, still jerking him off with the other hand. Creighton tilts his head back, mouth slack and open, relaxing into it, and Pate takes the opportunity to dip his head down and put his lips at the join of Creighton’s neck and jaw, right over his pulse. He plants a kiss there first, and then bites down hard – and of all things, _that’s_ what pushes Creighton over, cock twitching and spilling over Pate’s gloves. Pate soothes the bite with his tongue as he works Creighton through his orgasm. Only once Creighton’s soft does he let go of the man’s neck. Creighton sucks in a breath – coughs – slumps against the wall, one mail-covered hand coming up to rub at his throat.

Pate’s feeling a little unfulfilled but Creighton doesn’t look in any condition for a round two, so he decides, rather magnanimously, not to mention it.

“Maybe you were right about having a permanent base,” Pate says slyly, when Creighton looks like he’s at least half conscious. “I’m starting to become fond of this place.”

* * *

It’s alluring, the way Creighton gives himself to Pate, over and over. Pinned under Pate’s body, tied up in whatever rope they manage to saw off abandoned barrels here and there, held against the wall with Pate’s spear pressing into his jaw. 

Pate asks: “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Creighton breathes.

* * *

It takes a long time for Pate to see it, mostly because he doesn’t want to. But at last, there it is, clear as day: he’s _fond_ of Creighton. Far too fond. It’s dangerous. He’s been burned enough times to know partnerships like these are fleeting by necessity, and always punctuated with betrayal. And Pate intends to move first.

He watches Creighton sharpening his axe from across the room, and slowly a plan takes form in his mind.

Best to nip this in the bud, Pate thinks. Before the roots grow too far in.


End file.
